The First Condition
by gugalanna1
Summary: All men fear death, be it physical or internal. But to achieve immortality, the first condition is death itself. Or, more to the point, Jack and company set out in search of a way to live forever. Spoilers for AWE.
1. Prologue

The First Condition

_It little profits that an idle king, _

_By this still hearth, among these barren crags, _

_Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole _

_Unequal laws unto a savage race, _

_That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. _

_I cannot rest from travel: I will drink _

_Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd _

_Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those _

_That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when _

_Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades _

_Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; _

_For always roaming with a hungry heart _

_Much have I seen and known; cities of men _

_And manners, climates, councils, governments, _

_Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; _

_And drunk delight of battle with my peers, _

_Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. _

_I am a part of all that I have met; _

_Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' _

_Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades _

_For ever and forever when I move. _

_How dull it is to pause, to make an end, _

_To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! _

_As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life _

_Were all too little, and of one to me _

_Little remains: but every hour is saved _

_From that eternal silence, something more, _

_A bringer of new things; and vile it were _

_For some three suns to store and hoard myself, _

_And this gray spirit yearning in desire _

_To follow knowledge like a sinking star, _

_Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. _

_This is my son, mine own Telemachus, _

_To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,-- _

_Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil _

_This labour, by slow prudence to make mild _

_A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees _

_Subdue them to the useful and the good. _

_Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere _

_Of common duties, decent not to fail _

_In offices of tenderness, and pay _

_Meet adoration to my household gods, _

_When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. _

_There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: _

_There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, _

_Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me-- _

_That ever with a frolic welcome took _

_The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed _

_Free hearts, free foreheads--you and I are old; _

_Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; _

_Death closes all: but something ere the end, _

_Some work of noble note, may yet be done, _

_Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. _

_The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: _

_The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep _

_Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, _

_'T is not too late to seek a newer world. _

_Push off, and sitting well in order smite _

_The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds _

_To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths _

_Of all the western stars, until I die. _

_It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: _

_It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, _

_And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. _

_Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' _

_We are not now that strength which in old days _

_Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; _

_One equal temper of heroic hearts, _

_Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will _

_To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. _

"_Ulysses" by Alfred Lord Tennyson_

_Prologue_

Elizabeth did not easily forget things. Names, locations, the placement of the stars on the horizon and the course one should set when attempting to find _that which cannot be found._ As a child she had been very observant, though not precisely the quiet listener. She remembered sitting with her father amongst many well-dressed men and women, casually over-hearing bits of conversation about the King and His plans in the Spanish Main. Crimes committed on the sea. Pirates. Philosophy of governance. Refutation of such libertarian ideals as spouted by her father. She watched. And listened. And remembered.

Now, as the day grew later, and the sea faded from brilliant blue to gray, she closed her eyes and tried to commit to her memory Will's voice. Cultured and soft-spoken, though raised a blacksmith and now a pirate. As he moved over her, she tried to lay in stone the way his body felt against hers. The hard movement of his muscles, against the gentle stroking of his hands. His skin was uncommonly smooth for a man, she thought, though she had nothing with which to compare. His hands were those of a sailors, roughened and calloused. She tried to paint in her mind the exact curve of his arm, from shoulder, over elbow to his wrist. The feel of his hair in her hands, the salty taste of his mouth, or were those tears? What did his nose look like? She opened her eyes and looked, really looked. Studied his face, as though every feature, expression and sigh of breath could forever be trapped in the prison of her mind.

They slowly dressed, touching each other between donning articles of clothing, a pecking kiss here, a small laugh escaping there. Now a sigh. Will looked to the horizon.

"It's almost time." She hated him at that moment. He did not have to remind her that he would not be staying. They would not wake up together in the morning, to sleep in and perhaps later, when their stomachs began to growl, suffer through Elizabeth's dubious kitchen talents. He would not be here.

Did he have to say it? Could he not just walk away? She did not want to remember these as his parting words to her. She wanted to recall only his scent, his touch, the sound of his voice murmuring to her as his hands explored her skin like a map. She wanted to always feel the way a torn nail had caught on the delicate flesh of her hips.

His hands left her face, his body turning from hers toward the sea and the sails on the horizon. Her own leaned into his, as though she might actually be able to follow him.

"Will!" She discarded the chest on the rock and ran to him, throwing herself into his arms. Her kiss was passionate and rough, trying to meld herself to him, in him. He softened his lips over hers, always soft, and gently pushed her back.

She stood watching him swim to the Flying Dutchman, saw the burst of green light as the ship disappeared into God only knew where.

As she slowly made her way back up the hill, she frantically tried to visualize everything about their day. About him. Panicked, she smelled her own skin for lingering traces of his touch, ran her hands over her face, her arms and shivered. Already the warmth was fading. And she smelled of sand and water and sweat. What had he told her? What did he say?

Had his shirt been black or blue? What color was his scarf?

She felt the air escape her lungs, and could not breathe. Her feet stopped of their own. Her eyes closed, body deathly still, hands clinched tight, nails digging into her palms. She felt nothing, not even the light breeze that whipped her hair lifelessly around her face.

Elizabeth could not remember.

A/N: Because I did not feel that At World's End was really the end of the story. On a small note of interest, maybe, the opening poem will set the tone to the entire story, not precisely this chapter.


	2. Chapter 1

Small note: There is a small conversation in Spanish this chapter. I put the translations at the end of the chapter. Sorry for any inconveniences; deal.

The First Condition

_understory of timber and wake, flat wind, rugged cloth. when he was seven he knew the ocean as something halved and put on a shelf. withstood. that he left the driftwood, painted in blue, willfully kelp bulbs and the gathering bees. he would see white birds, many arms. an animal of great imagining spelling slowly into sand against sky, against the slow pull of a flight of insects._

_Author unknown, but attributed to "Annie"_

Chapter One

Jack thought maybe his eyelids were burned. He closed them, and it hurt. He opened them, and it hurt. He sat in the small dinghy blinking forcefully and rapidly in bemusement for a minute before reaching down for the last bottle of rum. And not even a full bottle.

He'd been quite ecstatic, to have caught a fish, before he realized the futility of such efforts. He'd stared into its frenzied eyes and sighed.

"No fire, mate. Guess it's your lucky day." And slid the fish back into the ocean.

That was the day before yesterday. Today was today. And Jack was hungry. Briefly, he pondered the merits of a toe necklace, but then decided that toes did not, in general, stand well to eating. Too much nail and bone. No muscle.

He tipped the rum bottle back and lay down uncomfortably, but enjoying the motions of the sea. The last of the rum trickled down his cheek. The unwholesome thought of fire and rum made him cringe.

"When I am rich, I will have _endless_ stores of good Jamaican rum! I will never have to dive below decks, encountering the crusty, and, er, barnacle-y—_d_ countenances of long undead sailors' dads."

"Just make sure you've always got timber on hand, mate."

"Fire goes out, the temptation to burn said rum might be a little too vexing, saavy?"

"Burn the rum? Never."

Out of boredom, Jack pulled a small trinket out of his hair and dropped it in the empty bottle. Corking it, he threw it into the sea. He didn't really feel he owed her anything. After all, over the years, he'd left bits and pieces of himself throughout the oceans. Articles of clothing, a boot here or there, other empty bottles. His ship had been taken down into the foreign waters near Africa, brought back by unhealthy magic, but still something Jack didn't regret. Jack never regretted anything.

The ultimate sacrifice had been his own untimely death at the hands—er—tentacles of the Kraken. Or was it Elizabeth? Grinning, Jack thought he really didn't regret _that_, either. Bugger it. He'd long since forgiven her. Jack would never trust the woman as far as he could toss her. But he would have done the same thing. Likely. Maybe. If the conditions proved worthwhile, and option A gave way to option B, because option C was moot, and perhaps A never really existed in the first place?

_Pirate._

That word explained so much. Like how he met Mr. and (now) Mrs. Turner, who decided it would be a great idea to kill him, which was why he was here in the first place, which could also be explained by two, unrelated factors concerning the repeated loss of his ship and missing the opportune bloody moment of stabbing the _bloody_ heart himself!

_You are undoubtedly the worst pirate I've ever heard of!_

Ah, but you have heard of me?

Everyone has heard of Captain Jack Sparrow. A legend. At the sight of black sails, people either ran in fear or drew their swords, though the latter really just wanted their money back. _Are you the man I've read about or not?_

That would depend entirely upon what you've read, darling.

All the stories were true. He _had _actually sacked Nassau without a single shot being fired. He _had _escaped under the eye of the entire British Navy. And yes, at some point in his life, he had _attempted_ to rope together a couple of sea turtles, but he did not care to think on the aftermath of that too much.

The beauty of stories is that one can see whatever one wants in them. And one true event could be told a million different ways by a million different witnesses. Did that make the story false?

For instance, Jack Sparrow is still Jack Sparrow even if his hat has been lost. Temporarily. Lost, that is.

Something he resolutely was _not_ at this precise moment. His compass worked, really it did. But, like his ship, the damned thing got persnickety every once in a while. And so, Captain Jack Sparrow found himself laying in a dinghy, with possibly sunburned eyelids, holding no bottle of rum, or fish to eat, in the middle of Calypso only knew where. And he waited. What else could he do? And it was Calypso, Goddess herself be damned, who blew him into his current situation. At least, Calypso is the one he blamed. After all, the compass _she_ gave him was at present, not working. The winds _she_ once again controlled blew him off course. He knew where he was. Not _exactly _where he was, as in the coordinates and precisely how far away he was from the nearest island. But he had a general sense. Jack always knew where he was. He didn't actually need that compass, really. Not really. But he was tired. God, he was tired. So what really could he do right now, at this precise moment? Granted, he could be rowing madly, with the hopes of discovering at least another ship before his pistol started to look too friendly. But his arms were tired, the sun was setting and the sea was naturally pushing him in the direction he _wanted_ to go. The direction he _decided_ he wanted to go. Same difference.

"Choices, mate. I _could_ row like mad for an island that may or may not be somewhere in the undetermined distance. Or, I _could_ just lay back, catch some well-deserved sleep and let the lovely lady take me wherever she wants. Then I can row when I'm not so tired." Tough decision. Jack closed his eyes to think on it some.

Several hours later, Jack opened his eyes and smiled. The first sight that met him was the full moon. He sat up and looked around him, loving the light snaking across the quiet waters. His reverie was interrupted by the slow and loud growl of his stomach. That would have to be taken care of soon.

Jack took hold of the oars and began to row. After a couple of minutes, he realized he was not, in actuality, moving from his present location. Jack frowned. He felt the muscles in his arms, found them good and hard. Surely he was not _that_ exhausted and starved? Jack held the oars more firmly and tried again. He rowed in a frenzy, pushing his arms and back as fast as he could, then stopped, panting.

A loud groan, like the massive creaking of ancient wood, came from behind him. Jack turned around and followed a long rope attached to his small dinghy up to a fairly large ship. A ship whose ramparts appeared to be deteriorating rapidly. A ship he knew quite well, and was less than pleased to see.

A figure appeared on deck, holding the ropes with a grace Jack knew the man never possessed before.

"Well lad, if you're expecting me to row you somewhere's about, there's a strong need for rum and perhaps some decent food. Otherwise, I'll not move an inch." So saying, Jack crossed his arms and sat back.

Will Turner smiled.

"I was not expecting to see you again so soon, Jack."

Jack looked vaguely alarmed, and began feeling his body for fatal wounds. No punctures, gashes our gouges. When had he last eaten?

"_I_ was not expecting to see you at all." Jack replied. He hoped, sincerely hoped he wasn't dead again.

Will held up a rounded bottle, with a small shell inside. Jack couldn't help but blanch a little at the sight. He'd seriously have to rethink his sentimental inclinations.

"You are almost a day's journey to Havana Port." Will shrugged, "Well, a day's journey if I tug you behind us."

Jack thought about this. Will Turner made him vaguely uneasy, like the time he'd eaten Missus Laramie's kidney pie. He couldn't say he was quite comfortable with how the situation had been turned around on him, what with Turner looking down and Jack looking up. Literally and metaphorically. But Havana was Havana, and a ride was, well, _almost_ a ride. Jack comforted himself by the fact that Turner owed him much more than this. The boy owed him his life. Jack thought he should be relieved, if nothing else, that the Captain of the Flying Dutchman owed a debt to him. For once, not the other way around. Instead, Jack felt—

"Well then, if you're going to pull me anyway, might as well do the job complete- like, saavy?" Jack grinned broadly. He had a thought then, giving him momentary cause for worry. Did undead men actually eat?

Will tossed a small sack, and Jack frantically caught it, terrified it might fall into the water. Inside was some bread and cheese, a piece of tough meat.

"Where's the rum?"

Will spread his arms wide. Jack resigned himself and lay back with his hat over his face, though it was dark, and ate in silence.

_I do not owe him. This is part of his debt to me. _Jack repeated it over and over in his mind like a litany. Thinking on it made his head hurt, so instead, Jack thought about how his time would be best spent in Havana. Such as acquiring a ship. Jack silently vowed to kill Barbossa for good next time round. He promised himself he'd do it slowly too, if the bastard had sunk his ship. Which reminded him—

"Oy! I've been meaning to ask you, are you thinking it's still called _Davy Jones' _Locker? Will Turner's Locker just doesn't have that special ring to it, does it?" Jack lifted his hat to take a peek at Will. The young captain's expression was a study in emotion. First anger, then resignation, and finally, a sad humor crossed his features.

"When you die, Jack, you won't be going to the Locker." That was all he said. Jack took a minute to digest that. Having decided it might be best not to pursue that particular line of thought, he simply tipped his hat back over his face. But after a moment, he spoke again, genuinely curious.

"So, now it's just _The Locker_, then?"

……

The sky had darkened ominously, despite being early evening, and the wind had picked up by the time the Dutchman rolled in near port. Will drew his sword to cut the line, and Jack began to row. Cheerfully, he waved goodbye, not lingering to hear any word the young man might ask him to give his dearly beloved, should he see her.

Havana was as he remembered it. The bay was huge. The walled fortress somewhat intimidating, and the city entirely Spanish.

With a history of having been sacked more than a couple of times, the inhabitants and officers were always highly suspicious of anyone who appeared to _not_ _belong_. It was not Port Royal, for certain. But, really what was one man and a dinghy going to do in such a big port with all those rigid Spanish officers hanging about? What indeed.

Jack alighted from his boat, positively joyful it had not once sprung a leak, and made his way through the docks. If he was to acquire a ship, best have a look at the goods.

No. No. Definitely not that one. Maybe. Oh, that one was possibility. Best stay away from Spanish Armada. Jack laughed a little to himself. _Been there, done that._ Finally, he settled for a smaller ship, but the rigging looked good, as did the men currently pasting a new layer of tar. Satisfied with his choice, Jack turned around, to bump noses with a Spanish soldier, armed to the teeth.

"¿Busca algo?" The bayonet was not pointed directly at Jack, but he still valued his feet, and so put on his best smile.

"¡Hola, amigo!" Jack slung an arm around the officer's shoulder and turned him around, gesturing grandly to the city. "¡La ciudad—me lo encanta!" Jack turned the man around again and waved his arm out to encompass the bay. "¡Y la bahia!" The officer stood a little straighter, clearly proud now to be a member of the Spanish Armada, stationed in a city admired by strange visitors. Jack continued. "Y los barcos son las especímenes magníficos de la habilidad artística española."

"Oh, bueno, gracias, señor…?" The soldier inclined his head, expecting Jack to give him a name.

"Soy Señor Cisne." Jack bowed, pulling his hat off with a flourish. "Entonces, ese barco en el detalle encanta bastante." Jack pointed to the small ship being tarred. The officer nodded.

"Si, señor, es La Princessa. Es muy rápido, pero, el capitán es el propio Diablo." This was whispered as though in severe confidence. Jack doubted very much the ship's speed. As small as she was, the mast was bigger than it should be, and the sails were too small. All in all, it wasn't the best ship, but it was the best he could hope to do in the present situation. And it would do. After all, he had a head start on Barbossa by way of the map.

"De verdad?" The officer nodded sagely. So, Jack was left with a ship that wasn't the fastest, but not the slowest and a captain who may or may not be the devil himself. He slapped the officer on the back and smiled graciously. "Entonces, muchas gracias, para la conversación, mate." Jack walked away before the officer could say anything more, humming to himself and planning.

The winds had picked up enormously, which Jack took to mean he should not venture out just yet. Besides, he was in sore need of some liquid comfort, and perhaps some real sleep.

……

_Translations_:

_**Busca algo**_: looking for something?

_**La ciudad—me lo encanta**_: The city—I love it!

_**Y la bahia**_: and the bay

_**Y los barcos son las especímenes magníficos de la habilidad artística española**_.: And the ships are magnificent examples of Spanish artistic ability.

_**Cisne**_: swan

_**Entonces, ese barco en el detalle encanta bastante:**_ Anyway, that ship in particular is quite charming.

_**Es muy rápido, pero, el capitán es el propio Diablo:**_ It's very fast, but the captain is the Devil himself.

_**De verdad**_: Truly

_**Entonces, muchas gracias, para la conversación:**_ Well, thanks very much for the conversation.

A/N: As far as rules for the Flying Dutchman go, the movies were unclear. So, I am assuming that the general idea is you can't go aboard, and really expect to jump off again. Hence Jack scrambling to get himself and Elizabeth off the ship at the end of AWE. If anyone knows differently, please let me know. Also, does anybody know when abouts POTC is taking place? I have my guesses, but really I'm working blind. Thanks a bunch.


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